Citizen Crane
by dog.spartacus
Summary: Ichabod Crane has been trying to become an American citizen with the help of Zoe Corinth. Abbie Mills, ever the dutiful partner, may need to intervene. (Season 3, before 3x8)


References and spoilers: nothing explicit, but uses ideas and situations established by early Season 3 canon (definitely takes place before 3x8)

A/N: This got away from me a few times, but it's also been about three months in the making, so as an act of contrition, I mostly let it go where it wanted. I think it still holds up, though. Mostly. I'd love to hear constructive feedback, especially if you find a place that needs to be revisited. Thanks in advance for reading and giving it a shot.

Disclaimer: These characters are _so_ not mine.

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"Citizen Crane"

"Am I not _extraordinary_? Am I not—is my _being_ not—the very definition of _extraordinary_?! 'Extraordinary': from the Latin _extra ordinem_ : outside the normal course of events! Yes, I would say I am!" Crane shouted as he burst through the front door, circling to close it behind himself and remove his outer coat in the same fluid movement, not stopping his tirade for as much as half a breath. "Of course, those beetle-headed buggers probably wouldn't know extraordinary if it came and kissed their crackers," he continued, muttering to himself as he adjusted his sleeves. "Oh hallo," he then said, looking up and into the living room for the first time. "Forgive me, Agent Reynolds... I didn't know we were... entertaining," he added, peering further into the townhouse to see if his roommate were anywhere in sight.

"Yeah, Abbie's just... freshening up," Reynolds said, smiling just enough for one dimple to appear.

Crane took note of the beer bottle in his hand, his other arm outstretched along the back of the couch where he sat, the absence of his regular suit jacket and tie, and, of course, the fact that he hadn't stood to greet Crane when he arrived. "I see," he said somewhat coldly. He went instantly then to the kitchen where he procured his own bottle of beer and opened it without aid of a bottle opener. Moments later, he returned to the living room and sat carefully on the other end of the couch from Reynolds.

Reynolds responded by removing his arm from the back of the couch, settling both elbows on his knees instead. Crane took a long pull from his bottle, watching Reynolds from the corner of his eye.

Before Crane could swallow, the lock on the bathroom door popped open, and Abbie emerged, looking polished but comfortable in a burgundy wool dress—not exactly dressed up, but a far cry from the jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket she'd been wearing earlier in the day. Crane rose immediately, blotting his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Hey, Crane," Abbie said easily, giving him a smile as she came into the room. "I thought I heard your voice." She took a seat in one of the overstuffed armchairs, and Crane noticed what he had failed to see before: that she, too, already had a beer waiting for her on the coffee table.

"Indeed you did," Crane said, sitting after her. "I came in rather boisterously, I'm afraid. I didn't realize we had company." His gaze cut to Reynolds again briefly then to Abbie.

"Um, 'we' don't— _I_ do," she said pointedly. She blinked a few times and gave Crane a moment to excuse himself, and when he didn't, she prompted, "Aren't you supposed to be on a date with Zoe tonight?"

"I was. It ended," he said plainly.

Reynolds chuckled, and Crane glared at him. "It's not even 7:30, man," Reynolds rumbled, clearly amused.

Even Abbie couldn't stifle an indulgent giggle. "What happened this time?" she asked, trying her best to keep a straight face.

Crane looked from Reynolds to Abbie to his beer, fingers fidgeting. "I was denied a green card," he finally admitted bitterly.

"Aw, Crane, I'm sorry," Abbie said, leaning forward in her chair.

"I had applied through self-petition, as an individual of extraordinary ability." He glanced at Reynolds again, who was watching him with raised eyebrows and a rather smug smirk.

Abbie laughed in spite of herself. "Seems like an understatement," she muttered.

"Thank you!" Crane huffed; no one else, it seemed, understood his claim but his fair lieutenant.

"But they weren't buyin' it," Abbie surmised.

"It's difficult to... prove... extraordinary ability, it seems," Crane said hesitantly, again shifting his eyes to Reynolds. "For someone of my... ilk, anyway," he finished, glaring at Abbie, hoping that she would understand his meaning. He meant, clearly, that his former fame and importance could not be credibly established more than two hundred years later, and, further, that 'Apocalyptical Witness' surely wasn't one of the categories under which he could have claimed an ability.

Reynolds chuckled again. "You should invite them to a lecture. If you can keep them awake, boom—extraordinary ability."

Crane smiled feebly at the other man.

Abbie returned to her original question about her roommate's evening plans: "So, what, Zoe gave you the news tonight?"

"Erm, well, yes," her lanky friend hedged, fiddling with the label on his beer bottle.

"And?" she prodded, certain that there was more to the story.

Crane's eyes again flicked nervously to Agent Reynolds. Clearing his throat a little, he continued hesitantly, "She, erm, suggested an alternative... route... to acquiring... the green card." As if it might ease his nerves, he couldn't help the tangent that followed next: "As I'm sure you're aware, before I can apply for full citizenship, I must first have established permanent residence—which, though I have been here longer than most could fathom, I have yet to do. I feel desperately as if I'm trying to make up for lost time—and I'm... I'm _cross_ with myself that I have dawdled so long already!"

"So what was her idea?" Abbie asked flatly.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He glanced up at Abbie, then back at his drink, staring sullenly at the bottle. "She, erm, she proposed marriage," he said very quietly.

Abbie stared at him, agape. From the corner of the couch, Reynolds chuckled again. "Damn, Crane."

"You told her no, right?" Abbie asked sternly.

Crane floundered. "I—I told her I'd think about it," he stammered.

"Okay, so call her up, and tell her you've thought about it and you can't do it," Abbie snapped. Reynolds quirked an eye her way.

"Well, I have... _thought_... of remarrying," he burbled.

"Okay, but it's not gonna be Zoe Corinth."

"You encouraged me to pursue her!"

"I didn't know she was crazy!"

"And what, pray tell, makes her 'crazy'? That she'd want to marry me?"

"Yes!"

The affront hit Crane as if it were physical. He flinched and blinked, mouth open but unspeaking. "Right," he murmured at last. "Do excuse me," he whispered then, rising and taking his beer bottle with him. He brushed past both agents on his way to his room.

"Crane, wait..." Abbie said gently, turning after him in her chair. His step didn't even falter.

Abbie turned back to Reynolds, who was uneasily wiping his palms on his thighs. He gave her a look, wondering whether they were still going to dinner.

"Danny, I'm sorry," she said, not even reaching out to put a reassuring hand on his arm. "I..." she tried to explain but couldn't.

"It's okay," he said, "I get it." He stood up and she followed. "I mean, I _don't_ get it—but I've come to learn that I'm just never going to understand you and that guy," he added with wry laugh. "So it's fine."

Abbie bit her lower lip as he opened the front door. "I'm really sorry."

"Hey, we tried, right?"

"Raincheck?"

Reynolds thought about it for a moment. "We'll see." Then he was out the door.

Abbie turned immediately and headed for Crane's room. She hesitated outside for a moment, not sure what she should (or could) say to fix whatever she had broken.

She rapped lightly with one knuckle. "Hey Crane? It's me," she said into the seam of door and jamb. When she was met with silence, she tried to joke: "You're not doing anything stupid in there, are you?" More silence. She pressed her forehead to the door but knew better than to try the knob. "Look, Danny's gone. Can we talk?"

He was apparently more nimble than she realized because she didn't even hear the floorboards creak before he opened the door. She jolted back, surprised by the sudden motion. When she recovered, Crane was standing in front of her, having changed into his modern sleepwear: a thermal shirt and plaid lounge pants.

"I'm sorry for what I said about Zoe," Abbie offered when Crane didn't speak. "When I said she was crazy for wanting to marry you, it had nothing to do with you—I mean, really, any woman would be crazy _not_ to want you all to herself. I was just thinking about the whole process because there's this constant joke whenever someone marries a foreigner, especially after a short time, that it's just a 'green card marriage.' And the government vets those relationships pretty seriously. I mean... Zoe would have to know that. So she'd be crazy for suggesting it." Abbie crossed her arms and leaned against the wall outside Crane's room. "And, come on, what girl proposes on the third date?" she added with a smirk. This finally elicited a bashful smile from Crane, and he emerged from the room.

They returned to the living room after Abbie stopped in the kitchen to put on water for tea.

"There've gotta be other ways for you to get a green card," Abbie said, moving to the coffee table to clear Danny's beer bottle and reclaim her own.

"Short of marriage or employment—since my extraordinary abilities are not government-approved—I'm afraid there aren't," Crane responded, resuming his position on the couch, though far more comfortably this time.

"Well, what _about_ employment?" Abbie mused.

Crane turned his head to her slowly, as if it were pulled by the pronounced arc of his one eyebrow. "What am I qualified to do in this world?" he asked. "I couldn't say that to Miss Corinth."

"How about making donuts?" she teased, scrunching her nose.

He granted her a small smile then looked away as she took the abandoned bottle to the kitchen. "And how would I possibly explain having to drop everything at a moment's notice to go... wrestle a demon?"

"You could be a telemarketer," Abbie said from the doorway. "Work from home. With that voice of yours—and the accent?—oohf, I bet there's nothin' those ladies wouldn't buy!" she teased again.

He smiled bashfully again and focused on his hands in his lap. "And, to be honest," he murmured, "I've grown accustomed to being at your side. I cannot... imagine my days without your company."

The silence that followed was thick and palpable. "Try explaining _that_ to a fiancée," Abbie tried to joke, but her voice was weak and the joke even weaker once it finally cracked the silence.

"Indeed," Crane agreed, forcing a chuckle.

"Obviously, though, if you married Zoe, you'd _have_ to tell her certain things," Abbie said quietly, desperately trying to tamp down the sudden awkwardness as she returned to the living room. "Like about the demon wrestling."

Crane smiled gratefully at her, glad that she had managed to both address the issue at hand and also steer them back into calmer, more familiar waters. That was just one of the abilities that he truly valued in his partner. "True," he responded.

Suddenly Abbie took a deep breath and blew it out through her lips. "Well I guess I should change," she said, but she didn't move.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, for... interrupting your evening."

She waved a dismissive hand and started shuffling towards her room. "Eh, he'll be all right."

Crane watched her for just a moment. "Will _you_?"

She glanced at him and chuckled. "Once I change and find something to eat," she deflected.

"Have you not had dinner!" Crane exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

"I'll reheat some leftovers," she assured him.

"And let this effort go to waste?" he asked with a reverent showman's gesture to her. He missed the slight blush that darkened her cheeks as he scurried around the couch. "No, if you'll permit me time to dress, we shall away for dinner together! What say you?" he offered and asked breathlessly, already halfway to his room.

Abbie snorted as he brushed by. "You askin' me out, Crane?" she joked flatly, not expecting him even to her hear.

He immediately reeled around and stood upright. "Heavens, no!" he bellowed.

"Okay, you don't have to sound so disgusted," she quipped, frowning a little in concern.

"It—it's not—I wasn't—I—I didn't—I didn't mean—" he stammered.

"Relax," Abbie assured him, smirking as his sudden loss of composure. "It was a joke. Go change; I'm starving."

Crane muttered something under his breath, some self-encouragement to collect himself and get moving, then disappeared into his room. Abbie turned off the teakettle in the kitchen and met Crane at the front door when he returned. He helped her into her coat, and she waited while he donned his own, not thinking twice about sidestepping the door moments later as he reached to pull it open for her.

They chose a restaurant where they'd never been, someplace befitting Abbie's "effort," with white linen tablecloths and all three forks. And although Crane had always seemed quite comfortable in their regular, low-ceilinged, rustic-feeling pub, Abbie thought he looked just as at home here. When his stuffed quail arrived, he leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "I must tell you: were I to live another fifty years in your world, I may never find as simple a joy as plate service at dinner." Then he pursed his lips happily and began carefully sawing through his entrée. "Oh America, what won't you think of next?" he sighed to his meal, unaware of Abbie's dumbstruck stare.

"Can we talk about Zoe?" Abbie asked quietly after their dinner conversation dwindled and the desserts had arrived.

He took half a breath and glanced at her. "I did have a question," he confessed.

"Okay?"

"You mentioned 'green card marriages' and the _vetting_ of relationships. What is that? What does it entail?"

"I dunno," she said, sliding her fork through her sliver of chocolate cheesecake, "like, when and where did you meet, how long have you been together, what's your spouse's favorite color, what's your mother-in-law's middle name..." She lifted bite and savored it.

"So, 'to vet' is to..." he narrowed his eyes at her as he trailed off, hoping she could provide some clarity.

"Oh! Um... investigate, scrutinize. Prove worthy—make sure something holds water. You know."

"I see."

"And you and Zoe have known each other, what, four months?" She shook her head. "I don't think Homeland would buy it." She sliced another forkful of cheesecake. "Especially not with the archives in play."

"What do you mean?" he asked, finally pushing a fork through his own dessert.

"If it came out that you needed citizenship to save the archives... well, they can put two and two together as easily as you and Zoe."

"You're saying they would assume it was mere convenience."

Abbie nodded, taking another bite.

He brooded for a moment, absently running one tine of his fork along the hollow of his dish. "What if..." he began but trailed off, too lost in thought.

"Look, Crane," Abbie said in a gentle, supportive tone, "if this is just about the archives, why don't you let _me_ file the petition?"

"Miss Corinth offered the same thing," he murmured.

"They're important to both of us. I mean, come on, we've got a lot of history there, you and me," she teased. "Look, if the citizenship thing is stressing you out, then maybe back off it for a little while. Let me do this for you. What do you say?"

"I want to be an American citizen, Abbie," he said softly, looking up from his plate. "I want to _belong_ in the country I helped create."

She sighed sympathetically. "I know," she said. "And I'll do whatever I can to help," she added, reaching across the table to take his hand.

He stared at their hands for a moment then released his fork and maneuvered his thumb free to grasp her fingers. "Thank you," he offered sincerely.

She squeezed his hand lightly. "We're a team, right?"

His thumb grazed her knuckles as he gazed at her. "Indeed we are," he agreed.

Suddenly her breathing hitched and she cleared her throat. Crane straightened in his seat, affectionately squeezed Abbie's hand, and released her. They exchanged quick, perfunctory smiles and returned silently to their desserts.

After their plates had been cleared, their server returned to the table empty-handed. "Sir, ma'am, your bill has been paid by another party," he discreetly informed them. "If you would like anything else, please let me know, but otherwise, you're at your leisure now."

"Erm, thank you!" Crane said, exchanging baffled looks with Abbie. "Nothing else."

"Yeah, we're good, thanks," Abbie added. "And if they're still here, can you thank 'em for us?"

The server then straightened, bowed his head to them, told them he would, wished them a good evening, and left.

Abbie scanned the dining room surreptitiously. Crane did the same. Did they know someone here? Was it some trick? Were they now suddenly going to be under the control of some diabolical force?

A put-together older couple along the wall across the room caught Abbie's eye. She noticed the man first because his face was to her. He had wiry tufts of white hair circling his otherwise bald head and a thin, neatly-trimmed whiting moustache contrasting his dark skin. He glanced over and smiled, which is what betrayed him, and then the woman turned to peer at Abbie, too. She was just as old as her companion, but her pale complexion revealed more of her wrinkles and imperfections, and her blondish gray hair had clearly been dyed. Her carefully-painted lips widened into a smile as she beamed at Abbie, so Abbie forced a return smile and lifted her hand in acknowledgement.

Crane noticed her motion and so turned also. Once Crane turned, the older gentleman nodded to them and lifted his wineglass just a fraction off the table. Crane nodded back his gratitude.

"They think we're together," Abbie said to Crane through her smile.

"We _are_ together," Crane noted, still engaging with the couple across the room.

"I mean _together_ ," Abbie said as Crane finally turned back to her.

"Oh!" he gasped as he finally understood.

"Yeah. We should probably go now, before they decide we oughta be friends and invite us over to play bridge." The couple seemed harmless enough—and, after all, they had just saved Abbie more than a hundred dollars on dinner—but she was tired and not in the mood for small talk with strangers. She didn't _really_ think that they would come over to the table—and she only _assumed_ that they were the benefactors—but she didn't want to take any chances. With another glance and a small wave back to the other table, Abbie stood up.

Crane scrambled to his feet with her, also turning to gesture again to the other couple, then followed Abbie out of the dining room, whispering, "What is 'bridge'?" into her ear as they left.

At the front of the restaurant, Crane produced the claim tickets for their coats and car while Abbie used the restroom. When she returned, Crane held her coat while she slid it on, and by the time she had buttoned herself into it, the valet had appeared with her car. Wordlessly, the partners strolled outside, weaved to their respective sides of the car (for Crane knew enough not to open the door for the driver, though she were a lady), and climbed in. The entire process was a seamless dance, as if they had done it a thousand times before.

"What if I _wanted_ to be married?" Crane mused quietly, gazing out the window as Abbie turned onto their street.

Crane couldn't see, but Abbie raised her eyebrows. " _Do_ you?" She didn't want to remind him how spectacularly poorly it had gone for him the first time, but she sure was thinking it.

"There are certain... benefits... to it. Things I miss," he murmured.

Abbie clucked. "This is the twenty-first century, my friend! No one says you gotta be married anymore to get those benefits," she declared, mirth tingeing her tone.

Crane huffed softly, equally as amused as he was embarrassed. "Not that," he told her. "But... companionship. Security. Comfort." They drew up in front of the house. "Familiarity." He paused and glanced at her as she killed the engine. "Katrina wasn't... what I thought she was. But when we were first married, I was so very happy. You can't know how wonderful it felt to have someone who trusted me in all things."

"You really think I don't know what trust feels like?" Abbie asked flatly.

"I had a purpose—"

"You think you don't have a _purpose_?!" she interrupted indignantly.

"Well, in between monsters... and battles... in our _caesurae_ , so to speak," he mumbled, sounding not unlike a child, "yes, sometimes. When I'm only a civilian, sometimes I feel... utterly useless without a wife."

This time when Abbie raised her eyebrows in surprise, Crane could clearly see, even in the darkened car. "And... you think Zoe Corinth can fix that." It was meant to be a question, but her skepticism consumed her inflection.

Crane sighed. "Maybe not. But with citizenship added to the dowry, I had considered giving it a go."

Abbie sighed, too, and hummed briefly in thought.

Crane took a deep breath and shifted positions. "Shall we?" he asked, hand poised over the door handle.

Abbie smiled and joined him in exiting the car. He waited for her on the sidewalk, then they walked up to the house together. Abbie stepped to the side to let Crane use his own key to open the door and lead the way in. He pivoted once inside and faced her as she stepped in, then closed the door behind her and, as fluidly as he had removed his own coat earlier in the evening, reached for the one she had unbuttoned and was handing him to hang up on the hook. She took off for the kitchen as he undid his own coat and hung it next to hers.

He joined her in the kitchen. She had already put the kettle back on, and he came in close behind her to stretch for their mugs in the cabinet above the stove. Reaching again into the cabinet, he withdrew his favorite evening tea and hers, handing her a wrapped teabag as she handed him an infuser from the drawer next to her. He measured and settled his loose tea as she unwrapped her bag and unwound the string to tether it to the handle. She left for her bedroom as he was putting the boxes of tea back in the cabinet. He followed her out of the kitchen when he was done, headed for his own room.

He returned first, clad again in his thermal shirt and flannel pants, to drag the sugar canister forward on the counter and take the bottle of honey down from its high shelf. Abbie reappeared in the kitchen, similarly dressed, just as the kettle began to whistle, and went directly to the fridge to collect the milk and lemon. As Crane leaned over to pull the kettle off the stove, Abbie ducked under him to splash the milk into his mug before he poured the water. She fixed her own tea with honey and lemon, and he added sugar to his. While she put back the milk and lemon, he put back the sugar and honey. Flawless, unspoken choreography.

They stood there silently for a moment, each leaning against a different section of the countertop.

"I get how much it means to you," Abbie said at last. "If marrying Zoe is your solution... well, I'll support it."

When he was quiet for too long, Abbie looked over at him. He was staring at her.

"Crane?"

He shifted his gaze to their teas and inhaled deeply. "Perhaps you were right. Perhaps one needn't marry these days to experience the benefits of... domesticity." He turned away again and stared off into the distance. "And surely someone would find it suspicious if I were to suddenly marry someone I'd known for four months immediately after being denied a green card by self-petition."

Abbie nodded in understanding.

"Did you mean what you said at dinner?" he asked, glancing back to her.

She laughed. "Which part? We said a lot."

"About my citizenship. That you'd do whatever you could to help."

"Oh, yeah, of course. Whatever you need. You had to ask?" She frowned at him, smiling, half questioning and half teasing, and picked up her tea to carry it to the living room.

He wished instantly that she hadn't left the kitchen; what he had thought of saying next were words for an intimate space, not to be shouted across the house, not even to be shared on the sofa in the warmly-lit openness of the living room. Still, he had to know. He picked up his own mug and hurried after her. "Anything?" he asked, coming into the room. "Anything at all?"

She looked at him warily. "You're startin' to scare me, Crane..." she joked.

He stood at the end of the couch, watching her intently, his free hand clenching and unclenching nervously at his side. Finally, he sat. "I was thinking, Lieutenant," he said, unable to look at her, "that the Department of Homeland Security might not be _as_ suspicious of me were I to wed someone I'd known for... some time." His eyes flicked over to her and away again, too quickly to actually see her. "Three years, say?" He waited for her to say something, and when she didn't, he continued, breath and voice quavering despite his efforts to control them: "That is, rather than someone I've only _known_ for four months, someone instead with whom I've _been living_ for that time..."

"Oh," Abbie croaked, barely audible. "Wow. Uh..."

"We do share a fated, eternal bond," he reasoned quietly, trying and failing to smile as if he hadn't been serious. He tried again for levity: "And if complete strangers in restaurants already assume it, surely we could convince the government..." A glance over at her told him that his attempts at humor were ill-advised. She looked stunned, staring wide-eyed at her tea on the coffee table. He took a breath and assured her, "It would be a marriage in name only, Lieutenant, if you wished."

"Um..." She cleared her throat and glanced at him. "Can I think about it?"

"Of course!" His entire body relaxed with the relief that she hadn't flat-out rejected him. He picked up his cup of tea and brought it to his lips. "And when you have decided," he told her, "I shall let Miss Corinth know my own decision."

"Wait. If I say no..."

"Then I shall accept Miss Corinth's offer and take my chances with the government."

"We can't really be your only options," Abbie said, reaching for her mug and curling into her seat.

"At this moment, I see no others. Do you?"

She huffed a little, realizing he was right. "So your last shot at citizenship... comes down to me or her."

Crane nodded, shrugging helplessly, hoping to convey that if there were any other way, he wouldn't have imposed upon her in the first place.

"Well," she said at last, "help me out. If you had to choose, who would you rather marry?"

"I think I've made that quite clear, Lieutenant," he said quietly.

She snickered. "You mean the constant exchange of emojis?"

He smiled bashfully and looked away. But before she could get the wrong idea and speak again, he lifted his head, sat forward, and announced, "There is only one of you whose company I daily require. Only one of you to whom _I_ broached the subject of marriage this evening. Only one of you whose solace I sought when the other did make her overture." He took a small breath and steeled his nerves. "So, yes, _Abbie_ , I believe I've made my preference abundantly clear. And, despite what you seem to think, text messages mean very, very little to me."

Abbie was speechless. She knew, of course, that they were only talking about a legal arrangement by which he would have a better chance of securing American citizenship and, by extension, save a building that was under threat of demolition, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she had just been the target of an actual eighteenth-century marriage proposal and stoic declaration of love. Even her heart, pounding aerobically in her chest, seemed to recognize it. "Well!" she said, trying to mask her nervousness by taking a concentrated sip of tea. "Okay, then. Let's do it."

"You agree to marry me?" he asked breathlessly, a half smile transforming his lips.

Having just accepted his offer for wholly platonic purposes, she found her mind wandering upon sight of his expression, so she looked down into her tea instead and gritted her teeth. "Yep. I said 'whatever I can,' didn't I?"

Crane's body jerked as he moved suddenly to get off the couch. "I should call Ms. Corinth to decline—"

"Whoa, husband, it's after eleven. Give the poor girl until morning," Abbie said.

His eyes twinkled as he smiled over at her, resuming his relaxed position on the sofa. "Quite right," he said. "— _wife_ ," he added smugly.

Abbie rolled her eyes, but she was clearly amused. In fact, she felt like she couldn't stop smiling. "This turned out to be a weird night, huh?" she asked, trying to defuse her own discomfort as she lifted her mug for another sip of tea.

"Have we not had weirder?" Crane mused.

"We have."

"And will we not have weirder yet?"

"Oh, I'm sure we will."

A brief, comfortable silence fell over them until Crane spoke softly. "I will say, though, Lieutenant, that I believe I would rather have weird with you than normal without."

She drew a breath and thought about it for a moment, considering how she might have felt three years earlier. The simple truth was, he had grown on her unexpectedly. She now fully owned their destiny and their duty, and she wouldn't have it any other way. "Me too, Crane," she told him. "Me too."

 _-fin-_

* * *

A/N: I confess that I didn't go back and re-watch the early S3 episodes with Zoe in them because I just don't want her to exist. (Not true: I want her to exist and then become possessed by a demon and have to disappear from Crane's life so that he finally realizes that the only person who is safe to love is his fellow Witness...) But because I didn't re-watch them, my memory of the whole citizenship-will-save-the-archives business is kinda shaky. I thought of going back to watch them to make sure the story was as accurate as possible before I published it, but then I reconsidered; I finally finished the story and wanted to put it out there as quickly as possible. But I'll watch the episodes sometime and revisit the story as needed. I'm not opposed to editing after publication.


End file.
